The Little School Outside of Essaouria

The bus came to a sudden stop. I was in the middle of reviewing the Arabic numbers from 1 to 10 when I noticed that Beate and Yunes, our guide, got off the bus and walked over to a small school on the side of the road. According to our agenda, there was no mention of this stop. I thought Beate wanted a picture of the school and the school kids playing in the courtyard. So, I waited for about two minutes before I got off the bus to see what the plan was. I knew something was up since it normally does not take that long to take a picture.

Upon rounding the corner as I entered the school. I saw Yunes talking to the man in the tie. Beate was inquiring if the group could look around for a few minutes. We were curious about a Moroccan school. Classes were not in session since the kids are on summer break. In fact, the few kids that were at school were helping the teachers clean up. Even though the principal had things to do, he graciously allowed us to walk around the school and talk to students and faculty. As long as we did not take pictures, we pretty much had access to the school. (After the tour, we were allowed to take pictures)

I toured some classrooms and noticed a few details that are very different from my own classroom. First of all, the classes are much smaller than my spacious portable. I was informed that classes range from 35-45 students. No more grievances from me about large class sizes. I also noticed that in front of the class there was a picture of the King. I also saw the same picture in the principal’s office. The classes were simple with a slab concrete ground, barred windows, a roll-away chalk board, and a teacher’s desk. Each room was decorated with various posters such as a mosque, animals, various people working different professions and the Moroccan flag. The student and teacher I spoke with said that the school provides the books but all other supplies are the kid’s responsibility.

For having limited resources, there was a lot of pride in the teachers and students. The principal explained about the olive tree garden that the students plant and the fact that out of the 730 students, only five did not pass their regional exams. I was blown away by this. Here you have a modest school with no library, computer labs, fancy gyms, tracks, and athletic fields yet there were no feelings of “can’t do” attitude. Rather, the teachers and principal were already planning on how to reduce the numbers of non-passers for next year. I wish our students could see the drive in these kids. To know that if you want to get a head in live at an early age can be intimidating for a young person. With all the poverty, it must be even more challenging. I came out of this encounter energized and even more committed than before because I should be able to work wonders with what I do have.

I also have to say that I felt special, along with my colleagues, who happened to show up unannounced and have the principal and staff welcome us with their hospitality. They were eager to answer our questions and show us around. They invited us for tea where we engaged in an informal exchange. I wish I could say that people feel special when they walk into my school. I appreciated the reminder that I am so lucky to work where I do and that my kids are very fortunate as well. I only wish that the Argon oil that this area is known for could motivate my more unconventional students. This little detour turned out better than anyone of us expected. I am embarrassed to admit that I do not recall the name of the little school outside of Essaouira. But I will never forget the impact it had on my soul.

Shondale's 3rd

Wassup Moroccan community!

Today was fun. In the morning I took a city bus to the center square. I (sort of)got what I was looking for, as when I finally saw all the different types of fabric, there was just too much to choose from. So then I took the bus back to the hotel, just in time for a nice, cool shower and lunch. So I got a bonafide marriage proposal (finally!) from a toothless old man who was just sitting around, not in his own place of business. Great, toothless AND unemployed!

Tonight we went to a touristy place, which turned out to be really, really cheesy. They put on a good show, though, and I batted my eyes at one of the horsemen.

Tomorrow we're off to go further south. I can't wait!

Peace out.
Shondale

23 pieces of luggage and sugar crystals!

June 25th
Retrieving lost luggage is never a pleasant task! But, we were successful in picking up every single lost item! 23 pieces in all ...In Fez, the people at the "Lost and Found" counter, and at customs, tried their best to assist us! Jelani, Azeb and I had a whole system worked out to organize the identified vs. missing items, the processed vs. unprocessed luggages, the many passports, claim checks and luggage tags. Truly, this required some major logistics! Finally, success! After loading the minivan with our loot, there were exactly 4 seats left in the van. This turned out to be a blessing! I was now sitting next to our driver, Mr. Ahmed. A native of Ifrane, he had returned to his hometown after a five year stay in Lybia. He had worked at the university since its inception. We talked about our families, our kids, about the diminishing availability of firewood in the Middle Atlas, about the recent climate changes, the resulting devastating floods, the extremely low temperatures (-19% Celsius this Winter) and finally, I learned a skill I might need:
How to tell the difference between real honey and the local imitation made from sugar.
Step 1: take a drop or two of honey and rub it between your thumb and index finger
Step 2: place a small piece of paper between your drenched fingers and soak the paper with the product
Step 3: burn the paper...if it's real honey, it won't burn easily; if it's "imitation honey" it will burn right away, because the sugar crystals caramelize instantly!
Et voila!
Footnote: It is preferable NOT to use the fire test for "imitation honey" in the middle of the forrest (where it is being sold) due to increased fire hazard! :)

A lesson well learned!

Wednesday, June 24th
After settling in at the Royal Al-Akhawayn University, we started the serious business of learning classical Arabic. Our teacher, Mr. Oussama, made every effort in getting the first letters of the Arabic alphabet into my head. However, the jet lag, heat and humidity, and the new environment were our enemies. Very little was retained that first day, and I actually started to ask myself if I had gotten in over my head! Even as a seasoned polyglot, I was facing unprecedented challenges. Writing from right to left was like holding the pencil for the first time! I was concerned about my handwriting (as only a real teacher would be)....All these dashes and dots!......This experience was a refreshing reminder of the hurdles faced by my own English Learners in Los Angeles. Although they may not need to learn a new alphabet, the feeling of being "lost in translation" was definitely real.

Exploring the Medina at Marrakesh

My roommate David and I left to the old part of the city while it was still cool (85 degrees). We were looking to buy traditional souvenirs and talk to various people along the way. The day was gorgeous so we embarked on our adventure. A few blocks into in our walking tour, we stopped at a regular shopping center like the ones we have in the USA-Levi, Adiddas, etc. I was looking for the Moroccan national soccer jersey. Every time I visit a country, I buy the national soccer jersey. Within the shopping center, we went into three stores. Not one of them carried the jersey. I was curious about the 501s. They c0st $1,690 dh which translates into a little over $200 dollars. That got us refocused real quick.

Onward we went until we arrived to the market place. We spent the whole day in this area yesterday but we were limited to what we could do. So, we were ready to navigate the windy alleys through the Medina. We made periodic stops to buy delicious fruit. David got a great deal on Argon oil and harissa powder. Harissa paste is spicy and it tastes so good. I can't wait to have them with chilaquiles. As we meandered deeper into the market, we saw a hole-in-the wall barber shop. Since we will be in the Sahara in a couple of days, I suggested we get a trim. We went inside and had a great time practicing our broken Arabic with the kind barbers. We spent over an hour talking and laughing. We left because we hadn't even started to shop for what we went to get and we had to be back at the hotel by 2:30 so we could go to a museum.

Anyway, we continued to the Souka. I thought I knew of a short cut and David suggested another direction. A local guide very strongly suggested which way to proceed. I know how these guides work based on my experience in Tangier. I brushed him aside and he went ballistic. We got in my face and yelled at me in Arabic. This slight detour did not last long. Again, we proceeded to look for the sandals and jersey. By the time we got to the Souka, it was over a 100 degrees. We went in and out of shops but could not find a jersey for me and David could not settle on sandals. It’s a good thing we ran into a music store where David picked up an array of Moroccan hip-hop.

We were so thirsty by now. We saw the square where the snake charmers, monkey dancers, henna artists and other people prey on tourists. Off to the sides were orange juice vendors. We eagerly headed in that direction and quenched our thirst with the ice cold, freshly squeezed juice. We talked to the vendor having a great time. I am convinced David will be fluent by the end of our study tour. By now we were hungry so we left to enjoy more delicious chicken Tajin. It was an adventure zigzagging away trying to avoid the various vendors until we got to Mohammad V Avenue. David and I had a great time talking about the exciting 4 hours on our way to the Ryad hotel.

The Men of Marrakesh

Life has a way of opening up opportunities for you if you are willing. Here in Morocco, it's the seemingless mundane errands and my own personal idiosyncracies that have provided the richest experiences. Shopping for an ethernet cable, index cards, and my run yesterday morning. The shopping is another blog.

Traveling around does a number on the body. We haven't spent more than two nights in the same place yet. There's no opportunity to really establish a routine. Thanks to Manuel, I've been able to establish one routine: the early morning run. Promptly at 7:15 A.M. each morning we meet. Sometimes I go to his room; sometimes he comes to mine. Manuel's usual run in Cali is 4-5 miles. Mine is 2.8 along the Charles River. And I run slowly. So, our typical run goes like this: we run together all around the university, leave campus towards downtown, at downtown I stop, do some dips, and Manuel keeps running further then comes back for me. I struggle. Ifrane is at a much higher elevation than I'm used to.

But we don't stay in Ifrane for long. Two days ago we spent the entire day on the bus to Marrakesh. Yesterday morning was my first morning run with Manuel outside of Ifrane. Marrakesh is a big city. Being a single woman is something I'm constantly cognizant of, so I was especially glad to be running with Manuel here. 7:15 in the hotel. We meet as usual. This is foreign territory for us. We decide to go left out the front door today, and right tomorrow morning. The air is crisp, not as cool as Ifrane, but not too hot yet. This is the desert. We run past la gare, the beautiful train station across from the Theatre Royal, and continue on Rue Hassan II, which has a long sidewalk. I can get into a running groove here. There are rose bushes and benches  lining a "red" wall (I would later discover that Marrakesh, the second capital of Morocco, is known as the "Red City" and that it is compulsory for people to paint their house the same color as their neighbor's. But it's not really red. It's a coral--a Florida vacation home coral--a desert sand with pink).

We make it to the end of the rue and turn left in order to avoid crossing the street (an ordeal in itself that always tests one's chutzpah in the face of sheer danger). This street is less busy, with what looks like the Great Wall of Marrakesh along the right. Someone wanted to protect this oasis town.

About 100 yards down the road, I mentally give up. This always happens to me. I consider myself a runner, but I'm lazy, and I'd rather be sleeping most times. I always, always enjoy the feeling after a run, so I try to tackle this mental block each day. This is the point where I let Manuel loose. "Go, run. Come back for me," I tell him, and off he goes.

I walk for half a song, then I tell myself to stop being such a wimp, and begin to jog some more. I don't see Manuel anywhere. I check the time, and remember that the farther I run one way, the farther I will have to run to get back. I decide to turn around. Manuel will find me.

I've been alone for about 15 minutes at this point, all decked out in a very American running outfit. The stares are plentiful, but I'm not too worried. Jen, who used to teach a women's self-defense class taught me the other night where to kick (side of the knees and the Adam's apple, not the groin). I review this information in my head as the sun shines brightly in my eyes.

Suddenly, the men appear. In hoards. They're all dressed in long navy running pants with gray stripes along the side (Adidas-sponsored?) and gray t-shirts. Perhaps some sort of military training. I've already garnered stares from the random passers-by on the street. Imagine the stare down here. When I say hoard, I mean hoard. They weren't in a nice uniform line like I've seen ROTC runs. No. They took over the entire sidewalk, which was quite wide--about 5-6 people across. I decide to stop running and stand still. This probably caused more of a disruption. Men were turning their heads, calling out something I could not understand (Note to self: Have Oussama teach me cat calls in Arabic). Not because I'm particularly beautiful, but because I'm a foreign woman alone running on the streets. Apparently, a sight to behold. Where is Manuel?

The group passes. Relief. Not a big deal. A minute later, another hoard approaches! Where did they come from?!? I try a different approach and run through them. Not much of a difference. But, I get through it. And yet another group approaches!!! This is where all the men in Marrakesh must have been! Last night at the two cafes we went to, there weren't this many.

These men helped highlight for me that I am a single woman in a foreign land. And while that doesn't really affect me much in Boston, it can here. I made it back to Rue Hassan II, stopping once to ask directions to la gare, and then Manuel found me. Of course, he was worried about me because it had been so long. But I was fine. I had found all the men of Marrakesh. 

Impressions of Marrakech

We toured the new and the old cities yesterday. I find it odd that there is a city ordinance that all the building must be the same color, but I guess they have to live up to their name as the "red city".  At one point, near the end of our time in the medina, or marketplace, we were walking through a tunnel of sorts. Ahead you could see the sun shining and the haze from the heat, it was almost blinding. As we emerged from the haze into the square it was a chaotic scene. Merchants shouting, musicians playing, the sounds of the snake charmers and storytellers were all around us. Regaining my sight and dodging a few motor scooters led me to a fruit stand. There I saw, for the first time, dried figs, not in "newton" form. The merchant offered me one and then became angry and yelled at me as I happily munched it and walked away. I was somewhat disturbed by the treatment of the animals in the square. Monkeys in tiny boxes waiting to be beaten if the did not perform on cue and dozens of horses, looking less than fit, dragging tourists around the hot, cobble stone streets. It seems like the people care more about the millions of stray cats that are everywhere here than these "money makers".  As we rushed back to the bus I was really conflicted by my concern for the animals and the understanding that these people are just trying to make a living and survive. It all makes me feel very lucky to have been born where I was. Another day, another adventure in Morocco...I'm off!